Portrait
by Russet022
Summary: RemusOC. Remus throws away a chance to be happy, by being stubborn as usual. A lot of angst, and a bit of a character portrait for my OC.


A/N: The woman in this story is named Tilia Manoran, and she is Sirius' cousin on thier mothers' side. She has a whole history, but it is as ever-changing and multi-faceted as Snape claims the Dark Arts are in _Half-Blood Prince_. Because of this, this particular story is a snapshot of one of the many morphs her story has taken. "He" is Remus, being stubborn, as usual. The story is AU, because, as we all know, Sirius left his parents before he came of age, so his friends would not be 17 either. This is a little story about what might have happened between Tilia and Remus at Sirius' coming of age party, when pure-bloods would be worrying about marriage if they were anything like "the aristocracy of old."

Disclaimer: I do not own Remus or any of Rowling's lovely creations. I only own Tilia. If you've seen Farsight020's story, Farsight borrowed Tilia from me.

Portrait

The woman stood alone in the walled winter garden. She held herself as the aristocracy of old had once done. Her black hair blew around her in the fitful wind, one moment streaming behind her, the next tangled across her pale face. She made no effort to tame it. Her piercing blue eyes gazed far into the distance, taking some of the intensity from her glance.

Her heavy cloak was black as her hair, and of a fine, warm cloth to keep out the chill. It billowed in the wind, revealing flashes of the sapphire dress robes beneath it. These, also, were of a fine material. The robes, at least, belonged to the party inside the manor house behind her, the party the woman sought to escape, knowing she could not.

Her expression, though vague as she gazed into the distance, cleared at the sound of footsteps on gravel. She turned, graceful, her hair tracing delicate patterns across her face in the wind. She brushed it back impatiently for a better look at the man who intruded on her thoughts. There was a beauty about her features that was only slightly marred by the merest trace of the hauteur that twisted the faces of her family. For her high cheekbones and close-set eyes, her finely carved nose and small mouth bore a great resemblance to the family she detested.

Carefully, with an icy fire burning in her wary eyes, she watched the man's approach. She half-turned away, clearly trying to tell him without words that she did not want his company, not here, not tonight. But the man came on regardless, either misinterpreting her intentions, or understanding them and not caring. She looked away, her expression frozen in a mask of indifference, cold after the intensity of her scrutiny. The man was heedless of the change.

He offered her his arm, but she ignored it, walking away from both him and the house with idle purpose. He followed, taking no offense from her lack of interest. When she reached a loop in the path that would lead back up the hill to the door now hidden from view, she cast a glance behind to make sure that no others had followed. She was apparently satisfied, because she turned to the man beside her. He waited in silence for her to speak.

When she did speak, her voice held as much ice as her gaze. Hers was a soft voice normally, but it was sharp now in displeasure and rough from the cold and half an hour's disuse. "What do you want?"

The man laughed softly. The rude question was no more than he had come to expect from this woman. She was pureblood, both sides of her family had old money, and old connections. She should have been refined, politely disinterested at her most displeased and politely interested when she was pleased. It was an old lifestyle; she believed it to be outdated. When in private, she refused to speak or act as custom dictated. Hers was a question he would receive only from her, and it endeared her to him.

"I wanted to request your company on the dance floor, but you seem to be determined, not to mention dressed, to simply walk out on your cousin's birthday party." His reply was not as quiet as her question, and she flinched, seemingly glancing around for any other signs of life. He knew she was not looking for an escape. She was the last to inherit the peculiar gift with words her mother's family so prized: an ability to lie and be believed, an ability to manipulate and be obeyed. The wider world mistrusted her for this inheritance; certain of her cousins and cousins-in-law were jealous of the ability. At that moment, it meant only that she did not need another to formulate an escape, and simply did not want to be seen with him.

"My presence?" she asked. "On the dance floor?" She paused to look at the man. In a lesser woman, her look would have been considered incredulous; on her guarded face it was merely mild disbelief. "But surely you know that I prefer not to dance?"

"Here, perhaps," the man said. "I seem to recall a lovely young lady, much like yourself, who went to the school dance with some filthy werewolf and danced until she was kicked off the floor at midnight."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. He knew he was pushing her, but he was the only one who had ever been able to test the limits of her patience without fear of retribution. "Since when have you referred to yourself as a 'filthy werewolf?'" she asked.

"Only in yonder company," he said gravely, nodding back toward the house.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, more forcefully.

"Seeking you." He sighed as she glared at him. "I came to this particular party at your cousin's bidding. He did not want to face his family without a familiar face, and he seemed to think you would need rescuing before the night was done."

"I don't need to be rescued from anything, whatever my darling cousin might say," she snapped. "I simply came out in search of fresh air. You did not need to follow."

"I wanted to," the man replied softly. "Is that not reason enough?"

"My mother would murder me," she whispered, a ghost of fear flitting across her face. "I cannot, will not, throw my resignation in her face tonight. She—" the woman hesitated. "She seems to think that whoever I favor tonight is the man I will consent to marry. But we—"

"I cannot," the man said. "You know I cannot." She nodded, frost in her eyes again.

"Why not?" she asked. "I will not beg you, but I will ask this once. Why must you throw away your only chance at happiness?"

"I was born to misery and a life lived alone. You know that better than anyone."

Slowly, in one of her mercurial mood swings, she turned away, blinking rapidly, allowing only a few tears to freeze on her cheeks. "I know," she said. "But I cannot bear to see you in pain. I know that you want to marry, that you want a family—"

"The same day I realized that was the same day I knew I would never have it," he said angrily. "I cannot ask you to bind yourself to me, to willingly become a slave to the moon as I was forced to become. The longer you stay, the tighter you chain yourself."

"But I don't care," she whispered. He looked away. Her eyes hardened, and her tears stopped. "I thought we had more than just a few nights of _pleasure_. I—if that's what you thought I wanted then let me apologize for not making myself clear."

"You think that's all I care about? Do you think I can find any other woman willing to take me as I am? Do you honestly think I can love anyone else after you?" He struggled to control his anger, realizing that he had just admitted what he had vowed to never say.

"Then why throw away what I'm offering? Why throw away your only chance? You know I love you as well."

"That is why I cannot," he whispered.

"Why will you not even try?" Her voice was an almost desperate whisper.

He did not answer. She shook her head and scrubbed at the tears frozen on her face. Once inside, he knew, she would blame the wind for the tears on her cheeks, if there were any at all. She never cried.

I watched her go. I knew that I had to do what I had done. I knew that, despite her promises, I could never have her. She would wake up one day and realize that she would have been better off if she had followed her mother's advice and married a pureblood with far more to offer than I, a filthy werewolf in their eyes, ever could. But a part of me died to hear myself say it, to see her walking away, knowing in my heart that what I had most feared had indeed come to pass. She had asked me to date her first, and I had reluctantly agreed, afraid that to date was to risk our friendship. I let her push me, gave her more than I thought was wise because, in my heart, I wanted what I knew I could never have. And now I knew I had been right all along. It was a bitter feeling, and I struggled to contain my tears. A werewolf had no emotions. He could not cry anymore than he could genuinely love or laugh. Or so they all said. I could not let her throw her life away for me. It was not just a family she hated that would shun her, but most of the world we lived in.

Days later, I sit at my tiny table, trying to sketch her as I saw her when I first walked out to meet her that night. But I cannot. When I search my memory, I see only her tear-stained face as she glances back, her gaze begging me, as she would not beg with words, to tell her that this was not happening, that everything would be all right. It will be, I think, once we have both moved on, past this situation that can only hurt.

So I sketch her tears, and I know that this portrait of her speaks more of my emotions than hers. She never cries. Not for her own pain, not for anyone, and certainly not for me.


End file.
